Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava........

SO If you tell me your heart is "literally broken" just don't.
It isn't broken.
It just hurts.
It's just feels horrible.
Painful.
A feeling that hurts you and feels like your heart hurts so much that it's actually broken.
But your heart doesn't actually hurt.
It's just a feeling.
The cycle stills goes on.
It is still functioning.
So, next time you feel your "heart breaking" and literally being "torn apart",

Remember...

Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.............

“Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. I only just heard the sad, sad news of Robin Williams’s death. My wife sent me a message to tell me he had died, and, when I asked her what he died from, she told me something that nobody in the news seems to be talking about.
When people die from cancer, their cause of death can be various horrible things – seizure, stroke, pneumonia – and when someone dies after battling cancer, and people ask “How did they die?”, you never hear anyone say “pulmonary embolism”, the answer is always “cancer”. A Pulmonary Embolism can be the final cause of death with some cancers, but when a friend of mine died from cancer, he died from cancer. That was it. And when I asked my wife what Robin Williams died from, she, very wisely, replied “Depression”.
The word “suicide” gives many people the impression that “it was his own decision,” or “he chose to die, whereas most people with cancer fight to live.” And, because Depression is still such a misunderstood condition, you can hardly blame people for not really understanding. Just a quick search on Twitter will show how many people have little sympathy for those who commit suicide…

But, just as a Pulmonary Embolism is a fatal symptom of cancer, suicide is a fatal symptom of Depression. Depression is an illness, not a choice of lifestyle. You can’t just “cheer up” with depression, just as you can’t choose not to have cancer. When someone commits suicide as a result of Depression, they die from Depression – an illness that kills millions each year. It is hard to know exactly how many people actually die from Depression each year because the figures and statistics only seem to show how many people die from “suicide” each year (and you don’t necessarily have to suffer Depression to commit suicide, it’s usually just implied). But considering that one person commits suicide every 14 minutes in the US alone, we clearly need to do more to battle this illness, and the stigmas that continue to surround it. Perhaps Depression might lose some its “it was his own fault” stigma, if we start focussing on the illness, rather than the symptom. Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. He died from Depression*. It wasn’t his choice to suffer that.”

With hesitation do I dedicate to the half-empty,
but there's a vision of a girl I can't quite shake:
up to her Achilles tendons in rambunctious folds
of rank, grabby, carnivorous sea.
Disgruntled and shivering, but there all the way.

She’s the rare bird convinced of common feathers,
not so much ugly duckling as self-deprecating swan,
never so bold as to lock eyes with the water
for fear of seeing herself in clearest view,
and never seeing for sure that she’s a heart of beauty.

Not that she cares, anyways.

She's got the sappiest music taste—
though I’m not supposed to know that, either—
characterized by aplenty
of heartfelt bangers we loved in youth and pretended to be over.

She's no Mr. Brightside.
But ****, when she cleans up...

The only silver lining she believes in is her sharp-edged contour,
cutting as the retort she’s got ******* on the pulse of.
She just doesn’t need to shout to prove it.

I've the off-and-on friend who resents without saying,
no words to spare when she's busy as of late struggling to breathe.
The silence I took for elegance is suffocation,
but at least black lung is still the vogue, I’ve heard?

And through the struggle comes a wicked perfection:
the ability to lay waste with a whisper,
and revere only in the rawest quiet.

Her humor, sometimes for the offensive,
is the most potent sense of feeling
that doesn’t take looking at her own self.
She as herself could light up a room.
If only it weren’t so much easier to fall short.

Because never would she outwardly want to be on someone’s mind,
(little does she know she jumps to the forefront of mine)
yet in that same reluctant, teeth-grinding urge she denies herself
in the desire to find her good lighting,
I have in the desire to let her know she is beloved.

But to tell someone they’re poetry to you is a pin in the grenade
that these budding wisdom teeth just can’t grasp.

She’s there now in the sea I still liken to her eyes.
Windows to the soul akin to a place she hates,
just as capable of resentment.

All I know is I’ll be torn asunder if she loses herself
beneath the brine of a bottle or the message of faux-hope within it.
In a churning silence of the drink,
there’s no honest sentiment with which to compare.
Lost at sea, with no quality control,
fool’s gold is such a fine, agonizing release.

Yet on she heads, carving mountains in her path, for a swill.

Still, every time I see her again,
I know I’ll never help loving her some,
while I pretend there's comfort in the fact
that most of us had to sink before learning to swim.

can you spare some change
i could really use a little
get back up on my feet
feel the ground beneath the street
all i got’s this little beat that’s
pushin pulmonary particles through
passages inside me
it’s a losing battle
but i wage it anyway
every day
there’s no point, just a pulse,
just that rhythm driving chemicals
through channels unknown

flesh is nothing but a plastic cover
and if you s t r e t c h it far enough
the seams begin to rip, hovering
a guideline instead of a fence

a tongue is nothing but a stretchy strawberry
and if you cut it clean in half
the seeds disperse, swearing
to rearrange the words into normal speech

the brain is nothing but playdough
and if you let it mold
the pink uncoils, forgetting Plato
remembering nothing

the smile is nothing but a bunch of ugly mirrors
and if you rip them out by the roots
the spotlights reverse, it only gets worse
and you stare at your self-destruction for eternity.

You are the systole to the diastole
Of my four-chambered cavity
You are the pulmonary rhythmic control
That fills air to my capillary.

You are the Pituitary Gland
That drowns my bloodstream in dopamine
You take my brain to a wonderland
Drunk and overdosed in Seratonin.

You are the only Mitochondrion
That powers all cellular activity
My Cytoplasms are in motion
For the sexiest Golgi Body.

You are the ultimate synapse
In my every granule of neuron
That gives an involuntary prolapse
To both my dendrite and axon.

I instigated the most soporific cephalic act, An Argonaut sailing within your strange eyes of others pointed retina membranes, An unsaid exodus wishes to browse your meridians sunsets tainted of that meridian, As evening falls back upon you bathed the earthly mud, Nymph Ninfuceanicus sheltering your labours of bird waste in galactic extinction and creation...

For soft aromatic worlds, you went by your house ruined Zodiac
Blurring the lost romance policy profiles, threading peat spinning the metafhysist think of his tabernacle.

The ship in question was the beautiful delicacy of numbness primary Sun, Lost Halo where one day there was countless number age, to get lost in the cold of your trellis resigned and touching your going through the watery landscape of your soul cornered iron., Spark fleeing evaporated...

How many times my Ninfoceanicus very thin you migrated with your frosty, almost scary legs traveling in a foreign-owned bird…?, Where migrating is hard to see his crosses snowy mountain plants.

What if you. Ninfoceánicas lines will plan my rickety Saturn's own trapeze degraded never stood the lofty life of the living present all this happened? Divided scratchy body plowing all unexplored fountain.


Among several of them, thousands of them managed to be among others, but one of them, violated any protocol as beautiful geese and ducks in the window of my sky, coming to ask for my company, just on the threshold of spring, next to the threshold of my window and yours…, adopted eternal brother.

She mimics the snowy Nymph the feet of all the courts of the world freely, Dancing in tight spaces where sounds beautiful my favorite track other stragglers lost images of my beautiful bird of beautiful threshold of my window as timeless dances belfry rusty sounds.
For the dark wall between your gene, which will open the whistle of your detachment, every time your commander demolition subdued light and energy to take my humble mischief…
by the way, your eyes and mine, in the vigor of sepals loved everlasting flowers insults.

Together unfairly they united as dim flowers in the air,
Divided separately exile scattered your garden,
My chronic bad inside my hundred chronically ill
I will see  Nymph hiperoceánicus, hyper rusty
By iron hanging over the mask gestures cold weather martial iron watering soil and branded satin mask stays plebeian worms my ruined face of phases of my face closet and wardrobe.


The upward castle by fierce hillsides, notify more rasterize
Your morning visit.

Among many castles many seas gang signs of femininity,
As a sliding plushy receiving a Nymph Satardia;
The first and most powerful inhabitant of the ascending Ninfuocenicus castle.

When I'm alone,
I am on the side of the broth augury sling,
Holding my application
Almost like a plumber object in the hands of a blind astronomer.

Only three steps income
Where three steps have to meet me on the runaway shadows
Of my ancestors, right neighbor pine crafty,
That hid my totemic animality...
As the blood currents green,
I lost myself…

As a front polygon,
As a front wormy adventure story demolished
In the densest darkness of your house arcane absence ashes
The cadaverous presence of the wind of my roles in pain and ossuary  of that princely that emotional solstice who anchored in your flowery landscape of love,
Spinning wheel to square steps
As contraindication to love, then need you more.


You jump on my doorstep, plain unlicensed...
So the propaedeutic of Ninfaoceánicus begins,
You write my signs and my losses as prescribed
The loneliest adage constantly fading green robes.

I often feel sad as all times outside the elapsed time,
When I feel the absence of your webbed feet oily,
Aligning by walking wearing my sun off you,
With foreign attire migrating my sunshine clothing doze...
As a gale of tulle for the South Seas who died in the wreckage of a pirate ship Pliocene…

And your sea south sorry awakening as between species
Jungle, eater vampire  as the swirl start your being lost in my
Desert be... want to be mummy augur…
Lips worst evils of unrestrained fantasy tribal worse,
They concluded entirely confined irritability.
As the bipolar lost hope,

The graft of your nomadic existence and entrepreneurial ship traveling
settled that the bipolar economy of your means of anti-life,
Closing my eyes... black aniline,
Black lost roads dancing notch watermark,
Of the hypertensive empty string, as the rope pulls and
Solves the crescent of your face depressed ocher rain.


When river, and watch your lips precursors,
I watch the surf offshore devouring my joint,
In search of  nymph Titania, your age who live with me,
My Perfect for you and my image, my imperfect picture of you and me, silky movement shores of my soul looking for you,
When I sit at the knee I bend my knee for you,
I sit on the bank remains with you.
My codex collected from you, only you...

When the cave steppe fear rages,
Tongues of fire gigantic move me by your rivers adventure
I park in your loud voice drawled from the acute bonfire
In the wooded rested than ever, it grew on your side close.

Your life was almost a straight bipolar errors,
I am now businessman making your life nearby,
Hit blowing winds greater...
And at your life in my financial life,
If you think with your hands clasped over your face
know that almost live together with you,
unbecoming my libertarian release of master your flight
hell, beastly dessert.

Most hellish ******* lastly zain,
Of the greatest forces of your body eater the myth king, fabulous race The disabled senior verse confined treaty,
Confined you that is farthest from you **** nymph Ninfuoceánica,
requalification boiling in behaviors you to exist in the relief of your abysmal way but your gooey body resting on you..., rests meditating  Do not get tired, you do not pretend to be the ruin of your prey voice sound muffled, only animals that disturb you bring your pursue days true…

Your lovers sulfur knew your colors and smells of the most pestilential entity, that overshoot and tone your threefold, as a roar of the soul that comes from your soul, do not let mental baseness mimics with anemic,
lower hostile masts your anti angels have to ride on gold gatekeepers... For the spot, if mythomania and your alcoholic schizophrenia infinity, ...

hulks  of alcohol vapors in the pulmonary vessels by butterfly flocks,
They roam the reins of collecting and rasterized your weakness sudden death, As well as the sudden resurrection of my body.
And rebukes the storm, rebuke thy right entity endowed *****'s nerve
That's where I have to pursue your side embraces more hug me,
More than your own warmth, rather than your own bravery, unbridled carriage.


I often repeat a million times,
The times I did not hear your perpendicular attentive pauses, stutters hurry ****** your frequent alcoholism, not to distinguish only slicing nonsensical attitudes sometimes slow thinking agility of a lover, Thinking that ****** and reduces that sinister and discouraging, that scrape thin that limits who want to be and not dominate.


Mapping by hiding places unusual materials,
Brochures polished of the scruffy codex and guide you an  unguided
By the groves close views as telescopic sights that are lost.


I know, my biggest Ninfuoceánica death may not be reborn on the third day…!!, But if it is not to lose lost when the day ends.
Wise ancestry and slavery will govern the pale fronts
Your hidden and mobile lives on an olive orchard,
Hiper meditate funny without feeling any known gene passed ******, nor read past experience in your prodigious map of oblivion.

Satardia; He lit a match just as night fell,
Sea and sky colours compressing regrets that burned their matches

It burned his blessed same figure as the little pair of gifts
That remained on hold as senior Ninfuoceanica,
Only his dark side Petric windmill stone...


Someday reborn to confuse his disciples confused gentlemen,
And their abandoned phrases that he dominates.

Feverish ardor,
Feverish torpor
Every living illusion is extinguished...
Go to your coward stampede
Of gatekeepers on buffalo between bloodthirsty goats...


Jose Luis Carreño Troncoso Copyright 2015
Related  August 2006

If I were Brahma
I'd have my lungs
on the outside of my skin,
and while everyone was breathing out
I'd be breathing in.

While everyone was breathing in
the reverse is also so,
but no one knows
which way the flow
(through trunk
through branch
through stem),
whether they are breathing I
or I am breathing them.

Do I write to cure my mind of the things unseen,
By any other human being,
To regain strength from the pain?
That solemnly remains,
In my heart relentlessly stopping me,
From pleasures that are gained?
Am I the one that’s standing alone in the rain?
Or am I myself the rain?
Is it me that is untamed,
Causing bad weather that strikes the pulmonary vein?
Though my thoughts I try to contain.
Am I like hurricane Katrina?
Yet not wanting to cause harm to New Orleans.
So can I relate myself to hurricane Jane?
Who quickly passes over the Bahamas,
Not causing too much disaster,
But after Francis what else is there to be seen?
Did I change everything,
Because it looks like everything’s the same.
Even without me there will be someone with my name.
Just not my fingerprints though, they would have never came.
So really is the world the same without me,
Or would it have a different frame?
©

I'm ruptured whole and am considered
inadequate
as my
amygdala slides through the trachea drops to my ventricles falls through the aorta plunges to my diaphragm hits the esophagus crashes to my phalanges.         There is no hope.
May I hold something over your cranium?
May I remind you of your neuron imbalance? And yet
you sit and
watch as
my septum separates from the left atrium from the right ventricle from the bicuspid from the tricuspid from the pulmonary semi-lunar valve.
I love you.                             (Stupid cerebral cortex.)
I love you.                             (Imprudent Broca's area.)
I love you.                             (Hopeless frontal lobe.)
I love your nonfunctional mind and functional soul and

Well

this is all a metaphor for unrequited love.

dedicated banishment
self inflicted, echoing
physical displacement
from permanent coronary scarification
devouring accidentally my lacerated pulmonary edema
cauterizing weakness into cement
thermodynamically frozen muscles

umbrellas on parade in your city
netherworld for my regret
disreputable raincoats rubbery ebbing
against a tide of discontent
ringing out like let-downs

You want to know what's unfair?
Unfair is having diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis at the age of 22 despite never having smoked a single cigarette your entire life.
Unfair is having to take 3 months unpaid leave because you're "not safe" to be around anybody.
What's not fair is the inability to walk 5 steps to the kitchen without running out of breath.
What's not fair is the never ending painful coughs at night and having neighbours complaining.

You know what's unfair?
Unfair is losing half of your lung in a battle you never started.
What's unfair is hearing your family members talking behind your back claiming you have Aids, despite never been with a woman before.
What's unfair is fighting so hard to get back on your feet, to get back to full recovery only to get the news that you are now diagnosed with Bronchitis;
Hearing that you will never be able to run like you used to.
That you will never be able play soccer again.

What's unfair is the constant fear that follows after.
The fear that no girl would ever want you.
The constant fear that you might never be able to satisfy any girl.
The fear that, what if you get someone sick despite being 100% cleared?
Now that is unfair.

Unfair is whilst other people take few days to heal from cold and flue, you have to take weeks of antibiotic treatment, just to rid off the same cold.
What's unfair is people constantly thinking your TB is back everytime that cold starts.
Unfair is constantly having to explain why you breathe so heavily.
Unfair is always trying to act "normal"
You really wanna know what's unfair?
Unfair is having your brother lose the battle against the same TB you won against 3 years ago.
What's unfair is having him leave behind his 3 year old with no one.
What's unfair is that you didn't choose any of this.

And Unfair is writing all of this with a broken heart and a tear rolling down my cheek, because this is a true story.
It's My story. And regardless, I'm Still here.

I measured time in heartbeats and length
by how far your fingers traced on my skin.
Time passed like sultry summer nights
and length was as far as the night stars
that kept us company.
Every second was one I tried to keep safe
instead of cherish.
I wish you’d still wrap your hands around mine
as tight as you do your morning tea.
Because you are my pulmonary veins,
carrying all the broken parts I give and
returning them alive.
Reviving blood as dense as lead,
warming it like the sunrise I used to feel you in.
But now I can only battle eyelids that drop
like anchors near shallow shores;
trying to find the footing your eyes once gave
(still give).
And you might call me a liar,
but it felt like forever to me.
I still measure time in heartbeats
but length by how far
you feel from me.
And right now time moves
as quick as early mornings,
and length is farther than I’d like.

dark storms rising
as electricity
crackles up my spine
in ascent of moonspell
as I trip through
            my own wires
                 my inner sense
                     of flesh
      reverberating  
in waves of
magnetic fireworks
      and suddenly
I am spinning
     my fibers
all splayed out                
for you to see
a cartographer
of emotion
mapping your veins
               and arteries
and we hold citizenship
of a private inner land
a country              
    that we share
as we into light expand
my inner goddess in tune
with your
molecules and carbon
your cells rushing like
                a river
into my estuary
in landscapes of longing
blissfully unaware
but for our souls'
secret language of
pumping blood and fire
from here, it's uncharted
but for the rhythms
                   of desire

invisible to the naked eye,
we exquisitely penetrate
the surface
descend into the
depths of bones
the most primal core
where lava licks
push spirit's will
            straight up to the fore
and I am the spark in
your most opaque rage
ready
to give it up
in dust and magic
as pulmonary exhale
flows the blood
and we dissipate , slowly
into uninhibited flood

Take me apart,
dark love
pulverize my limits
fly with me
to the opposite
of loneliness
where
    every
        millisecond
  breathes

Kneel at that river bend

in supplication

in silent meditation

and hold fast to the quiet whisper that say

Drink

between heartbeats

in a slow lazy way

so that it curls around you



but you look at the water

and your hands are frozen

it is not clean



maybe there is another river

or faster moving water



you rise from the riverbed

you are afraid

of the water

of the current

you can swim

but you do not know if you can stand

at the riverbed


the current is fast and unforgiving

it moves around you

through you



it does not touch you



the river moves forward

rushing

turning

roiling



it will drown you



Kneel

there is another river

there is faster moving water



but still

Kneel

**Drink

They keep sending these transient friendships,
And it seems like I can’t get a single grip,
And the hollow words, they tell me,
Make me see how empty they are with me.

We’ve been paralyzed by concrete feelings,
by faces we barely recognize.
Its amazing what people will do,
Just so they can be contemplated by you.

Sirens filled the air,
The water still dripping from my hair,
All I heard were lies, deceit and tears,
The summary of all your fears.

It’s always the same every morning,
I guess you get used to playing musical beds,
I’ve become a monster I’ve never met,
Someone I seriously forgot to pet.
You can call yourself a monster, But the truth is,
That underneath this grin,
We're all beasts with thick skin.

I don't know what to chase anymore,
Where to point the sails ashore,
It seems like every time I care too much,
We fall apart.

It looks like I'm chasing my favorite phantoms in the dark,
For you I fell so hard,
Like a pulmonary artery in the heart,
Blindly beating for a counterpart.

I’m going to knock out,
I’m sorry just really was held up on alarms,
Sirens and torments fill this fragile state of mind.
Which keeps us awake, makes us aware, and keeps us adored,
Even if you lose it tonight,
The next morning it won't be filled by awkward half-hearted byes.

I don't know what to chase anymore,
Where to point the sails ashore,
It seems like every time I care too much,
Things fall apart.

swimming under lightning,
lighting our submergence flash allure:
smooth bodies, bright to glimpse and shadow-grin intent
collide and mingle folds of pleasure, firmly
bent to tangle, clasp and spurn the world above,
rely on one another's breath, stored for loving
long in bubbles gasping sweet melodics free
as with imagined merfolk passion-songs of lore, prescient
lapping dance of tidal fruits you loved before they came,
moonray columns stage us in our seashift wombs--again--
within a womb--like instant chrysalises blinking luminescent bursts
i am interred within the waves you ripple into me, blind
carnal pressures built from ancient shores become the sea again
the magnitude entrances on its own, that acrophobic thrill
celestial in our interthreaded eyes, open
to a color deeply in the dark of octopodal ink
a curtain phosphorescent armpit pulse,
caressing thumb and lip, billows, sways the dance anew,
to sonar drumbeat, pulmonary height
the spinal scream a surface ripple for the sky,
symphonic deep to barely whisper into air

i

Off in the beaten path
An Echelon of secret tribal's;
I pirouetted with them in plumage
Mine queen showed up, just on arrival.

ii

Her timing was perfect
As tis she watched me caper;
Me and mine Reyna's amour'
Like tambourines, shook with ancient shaker's.

iii

Hot coal ember's
Igneous in ourn chest's;
Ourn pulmonary arterie's
Bracketed, by her tribesgirl dress.

iv

We were gladden
Betwixt the wilderness;
Under mango leaves
Jane seduced me, equatorial phene's.

v

Whilst the darkness wore down
And the tribesmen went to sleep;
Me and mine protector
In the dusk, disappeared, into eachother's soul's to keep.



©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry

My Father passed away this Fall, finally overwhelmed by the Pulmonary Fibrosis that had slowly taken away his air and his vitality over the past 5 years.  Right before he died, I had the honor of being the assistant engineer on my Dad’s last project.  In his last month, my Dad had became focused on his “router project”.  Dad had sent Mom to the store to find a very specific and necessary *****.  They had spend hours bolting and unbolting the router from underneath the saw table.  With the help of mom, Dad had spend much of his precious last breaths of energy shaping pieces of aluminum and drilling and tapping holes in order to accomplish... “something”.

Mom was getting a little frustrated by the whole thing. She was indulging his efforts, but she didn't understand what he was trying to accomplish. After I had been working with him for a few hours she asked me if I could tell what his objective was because she couldn't understand why he was spending so much energy and effort on a router. I explained it this way, "Mom, he is just tying up loose ends while he can. He doesn't want the router to fall when the next guy uses it. He is making a safety device. It is important to him... I'll help him figure it out"

Truth is, I had already figured one thing out, Dad's design had a serious flaw. He has made some serious miscalculations about the direction which gravity acts. His "safety catch" would only prevent the router from floating up to the ceiling. He knew it didn’t work but he was not able to understand why. His very sharp mind was being worn dull by lack of oxygen... I broke the news to him as gently as men do “Well, Dad, your idea won’t work. Not ever going to work. I am pretty sure we have to abandon it, unless gravity is going to start pulling things up to the ceiling some time soon.”  and then I cut him a little slack... “But I think the general idea is a good one... let me see if I can think of a way to modify it”

All the time we worked together, he didn’t speak more than a few works. He didn’t have the energy or the breath.  I read his eyes, his body language and his emotions.  He was very disappointed that he could not solve this problem.

So I solved it... I came up with a solution that worked.  Admittedly, I was rushing a bit and it wasn’t exactly elegant.  I shaped the metal, drilled the holes, ******* things together and after a few minutes I showed it to him.  He frowned. Stuck his chin out a bit further and shook his head “no”.  

“But Dad... see it works... it can’t possibly fall now”.

(no)

And then somehow I read the reason in his eyes. “So... you think that it will all come apart with vibration? Is that it Dad”

(nod... yes)

“Well... I can put some lock washers on it... that will hold it all together”. I proceeded to find the necessary lock washers and bolt it all back together...
(frown... no)

“So... you just don’t like it do you?”

(no)

Then I got a bit frustrated. My design was adequate and would likely work. But then I realized that the tides had really turned and it was time for me to show him the same kind of patience and kindness that he had show me countless times over the years. “Well then Dad I think that we should toss out my idea, it is only getting in the way of the best idea... let’s take a look at it again and see if we can figure it out”

We stared at it for another 15 minutes or so. Both engineers confounded but open to new ideas. And then the idea came...

Dad spoke. “Take out that *****... cut a slot... Dremmel tool”

Brilliant. A solution much more elegant than either of our first ideas.  In short order I had the work completed and the router hanging back under the saw table.  

Last project done.

After he thanked me for the help I encouraged him, “Dad... it was you that solved the problem.  You just needed me to get you past your first bad idea so you could get to your good solution.”

Before I left to go home he thanked me again for helping him finish his project and I had the opportunity to tell him for the last time that I loved him. I sat on his bed and kissed his head and held his hand for a few minutes until he made it clear that I needed to go. He didn’t want me to see him cry.

A few days later Mom called and said that Dad was going downhill fast and that perhaps being relieved of that one last project had helped him to finally let go.  

What an honor.

The very next day Mom called again and told me that Dad had asked her to make some measurements for new rain gutters.

I am not one to turn tragedy into poetry.
But may this once,
I will be selfish.
I will turn punches to the gut
into butterflies in my tummy
and I will write
about how ironic it is
that my dad,
giving me this brain
that has its signals crossed,
its white flags
disguised as rally cries,
also gave me this blood.
The one that pumps through my veins
and refuses to move forward,
to let me let go.
That my dad,
who gave me this home,
and who gave me this world
and then turned it into a war zone
gave me a body like a tree,
rooted, etched into by lovers hands
and blood like war -
violent, stubborn, refusing.

Fast, please, and let that heart ache
just for a moment, the sun's in today.
Recall like chocolate that thick blood and all that ugly love.
After all this time, you whisper to me still,
an echo in a chamber filled with words and lines that make me cry.
I won't be bitter -
being bitter merely begs the roses up next spring,
pushing through the lawn, pale with over-watering.
The only difference now -
I have forgotten your smell.
Hard to be in love with a personality you have so clearly discarded,
his love.
perhaps, I will grow old, begging for return.
luckily, as the sun sets I keep him somewhere
between my pulmonary artery and the base of my vagus nerve,
a heartful love urge,
the lake of tears.

It starts as fire in stomach
it churns over burnt nerves
and over used thoughts

It makes it way up
to your pulmonary system
it clogs your arteries
fights the oxygen
slow asphyxiation

Then it reaches your mouth
unwanted word *****
shaken not stirred
leaves a sour taste in your mouth
those acids of despair
those uncontrolled insults
that stab the other
on hit after the other

Then it settles
like the waves of raging sea
it sits in fetal position
in the core of your brain
burning neuron by neuron
with flaming guilt
silencing all irrationale
and giving voice to logic

You sit there
awake, it's 5 am
and all you can do
is replay day themes
of your angry blackout

Oh rage you're such black magic
that I have
yet to
master

the state of mind you trapped me in when you locked me inside my own body, confining me to perceive the natural motions of life as if I’m falling from a twenty-story building and perpetually climbing back up the stairs

I have fallen on this same pavement so many times before that I can mutter every name of its  frequent passerby’s, i can mentally trace every skid-mark, every link to your DNA from your musky scent to your bristled hair follicles

How you’ve managed to follow me everywhere I go though I haven’t laid eyes on you in two years,
how those around me sigh with hopeless exhaust when they countlessly attempt to rescue me from another inevitable fall onto the cold concrete,
How you breathe fresh air that holds your feet up from the ground, saving you the trouble of having to empathize with Mother Earth’s raw flesh beneath  you

Yet, I am still heaving through corrupted lungs, still swelling the epithelial tissue lining my throat,
still expectorating old memories just to swallow them again and again, each time forcing me to upchuck ****** acid from a place inside of me that implies no medical explanation

I have become so sick and fractured that i can no longer see,
I cannot hear, I cannot speak
But somehow when I touch, all of my delusional senses return as a shadowy figure that resembles the monster of whom I fear most

My vision funnels in, and out
until I feel nothing but the same cold pavement cushioning my bones like a disjunct lullaby

And as my mind melts into a dissociative puddle of nothingness,
I plant my feet on Mother Earth’s raw flesh, and her magnetic waves of energy wrap around my nimble toes, bringing me back to the staircase upward

contumacious imagery,

amorous intensity,

prostitution of the heart,

beating off the chart.

a brush of fingertips,

aching for the whisper of lips,

quicksand stare,

vulnerable and bare.

delicate pusillanimity,

accenting my pulmonary timidity

,hemorrhage of thought,

words of devotion wrought.

closure to desperation,

surrendering upon inclination,

innocence tainted by pain,

tears cleverly disguised as rain.

intoxicating appetite for sensation,

hesitation forcing isolation,

my attatchment never satiated,

my soul emaciated.

jilted girl am i,

you are the apple of my eye,

with you i am besot,

,my adoration not forgot.

fold the ventricle to the right
the pulmonary to the left
the wrinkled capillaries need to be ironed
pillowcases of vessels need to be thrown in the wash
take one last whiff of his scent
before he's just another sheet in the laundry
***** laundry
clean of heartache

For sale:
One complete pulmonary system
Heart, only good for parts.
Bloodless, lifeless, scarred on the left side
Email with bids and for photographs.

I almost slit my pulmonary artery
and I almost tasted bleak ** drops.
But I escaped the morticioner's needle
I refuse to have my eyes sewn closed
and my lips clasped tight.
Freedom only comes by the light of ultrasounds and x rays.
I can see now
better than before.
And it's all thanks to the gravediggers
who replaced the phlamalderhide
with breastmilk.

Let's talk about this nurse
who stays at pulmonary unit.
He takes care of patients
who has difficulty
in respiration.
But what I want to say is this:
I feel like I should be admitted too
because he takes my breath away.

Chapter IV
Gordian knot

Greek legend according to which the inhabitants of Phrygia, Anatolian region, in the current one needed to choose a king, so they consulted the oracle. The latter replied that the new sovereign would be the one who entered through the Eastern Gate, accompanied by a crow perched on his chariot. The one who fulfilled the conditions was Gordias, a farmer who had his cart and oxen for all his wealth. When he was elected monarch, he founded the city of Gordio and, in gratitude, offered the temple of Zeus his chariot, tying the spear and yoke with a knot whose ends were hidden inside, so complicated that no one could untie it. According to what was said then, whoever succeeded would conquer the East.
Alexander the Great, supported by Vernarth and a hand impregnated with globules from Eritrea, was on his way to conquer the Persian Empire, already united with both Bi steeds, Fire Hoof and Ox Head, in 333 BC. C. After crossing the Hellespont he transgressed the Sudpichi Stream like a weightless cloak of a Machi Begging to the Cosmos for Negechen for the rickety Rehue, prophesying to him on his hands dismembered of bravery, great assistance of 300 years of Nge -Nge Mapus souls in his furious nose that propelled him with anger; and which untied the Champollion knot with some sphinx uncovering Pandora's allegories from the Valleys of the Kings. Then he conquered Phrygia, where they faced the challenge of untying the diocesan knot. He solved the problem by cutting it with his sword, cutting his head between the eyes, one for each side ..., the South one was from Vernarth with his beautiful eyes saying "I always see light when I wake up and dawn at night to rub the back of my Alikanto always riding with Him in Lid Universal Patriotics”.  According to Curcio Rufo's narration:   "It is the same to cut it as to untie it." That night there was a storm of unburied lightning that symbolized, according to Alejandro, that Zeus and Joshua´s stone were with him Espanta cuculí, genuflecting his knee towards such a Period in his analogy, that he would go through the shadowy time zone of Time and his eroded geo intelligence Both exhorting the oracles appeared before the stormy voices saying: "We agree on the agreements with the solution and its knot avoiding more knots by the hands of empires without a solution."

It alludes to this knot, made of mane's manes killed in battle and sleeping maiden's hair for the hope of widowhood beyond Eden: "both meditates cutting and loosing." That is, it does not matter how it is done, the important thing is that it is achieved. Millions of arrows actually fall from their badly vibrated bows, before this motto that appeared on the arrows, with a single rope cut around it.

Currently the expression Gordian knot refers to a difficulty that cannot be solved, an obstacle that is difficult to overcome or a difficult solution or outcome, especially when this situation only supports creative or own solutions of lateral thinking. "To cut the Gordian knot" means to solve a problem sharply and unceremoniously; that is to say, that discovering the essence of the problem, we will be able to reveal all its implications.

Top Ten Oases:
Just half a day after arriving in Gaugamela, Etrestles from Kalavrita, who came from Messolonghi, joined them; He came with his Kanti Black Steed "Rain of Perennial Fog". They came from Crete where the ultra cosmic powers were transmuted through their noses. That is why Kanti, as he approached the pair Vernarth and Alexander the Great flew leaping and shooting blue fire down his foamy muzzle. His ears sparkled like a Laziko dance of the Mediterranean Dodecanese of the proto Sirtakis of the north wing of whispered compasses. Holy kisses and hugs are halted and uttered, and the Macedonian Saints bowed to Lord Etretles.

Etrestles says:
I come from Messolonghi; of the eighth cemetery and of the eighth day. I get stuck the Dionysian aroma of his intentions when untying the Gordian knot. I was welcomed by the Charioteer in his armored car, after sleeping a thousand years I was reborn next to my face of the current of the greater solar star. The search for that shouting made me celebrate the search for that shouting of you. The similiar hairy body that fell contracted on my wonderful fingers, delighting my humble tributes to the beetles that accompanied me to direct my sight to the sepulchral vaults near their bodie Incorrupt.
Which of all the columns erected is capable of opening all the columns built in the pavilion of these moles without shapes or caves of colors ..., only the vitalizing Aeolian pulmonary diaphragm of my reverie, is who I think would ... To all of us who are trapped in holy Hellenic soils, I bring you good news: Auriga supports me with her Blacksmiths from the twelve rivers of the Dodecanese, to loosen the barriers of You, Beloved Brother Vernarth, and of you, my Lord Alexander the Great. .  Our father Staktos and our mother Vitabión that her lineage and beautiful face have not been corrupted in a thousand years.   Since our ninth baptism in Ayia Lavra, where she saw me be buried for the ninth time. Whose archpriest with his holy oils made him slide down our partition, pretending to be a dance of blessed water for this task in Gaugamela. To all of you. Blood of my blood, I feel your sacred vertebral need speak from within!

Auriga says: Orion's *****; everlasting fuel, will give strength to their steeds, to rise above the great contest, to brandish my undulating Xiph swords, to unsolder the bars of their oppressed souls before spilling the blessed blood of a Hellenic Soldier as sweet syrup for the dying delirium of those who will see the boom of the fireflies decay, baptisms about past lives, deaths about future lives.

Etrestles says: My ****** Vernarth, by the underground caste conglomerate you will wake up! To you. Like me, one day I lay as I was to my crude death in my last life at the hands of a Spartan Soldier. You blood of my blood released my bars to determine my Hellenic situation!

As this happened, I put in an odalisque and blew a similiar flow of ***** into my ear from the numb Vernarth. The waves and waves of paradise caused amazement at the coming duel. Before the enemy more than 250 thousand infantry and cavalry, faked tanks, archers, Greek hoplites, Peltasts, elephants and sophisticated weapons of war. Beyond mercenaries of death sowing the last words of ardor in their hands of faith of triumph, before the Macedonian militants too inferior  to the hordes of Darius in account only of 47 thousand militiamen of Alexander the Great.

under edition, to be continued

I love you.
I love you like oxygen, like my lungs.
Pulmonary. Coronary.
And although it may make me dizzy,
I love you like my blood.
My veins, venules, arteries, arterioles.
Blood epidemic. Systemic.